


golden teeth, electric hands

by churchish



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Kinda, Not Canon Compliant, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Tension, a smidgeon of plot. just a bit, but honorifics require specific titles ugh, dark souls canon but that shit is wild, def arty/ciaran and you're the mediator, especially you, heavy on the kinda, i did try to make it as gender neutral as possible, i tried to base this off of yknow, id do that, im taking creative liberty so now you know why it sucks, just how it be, ornstein is a prideful ass and we love him for it, ornstein is emotionally constipated and takes it out on you, reader is absolutely based off me and is 10000 percent insecure about art, relationships are hard, sif is female and artorias loves her very much 100 percent good dad, things could get spicy if yall want, we love him tho its okay, yes you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchish/pseuds/churchish
Summary: You, christened 'Painter of Nowhere' by Lord Gwyn, were commissioned to paint your best piece.This was your fate.To be stuck in Lordran's crown jewel, to feel nothing but the chill of marble and cool steel.But, like the shifting of the seasons, change came, andhewas just as harsh and unforgiving as the city he called home. For all you knew, he, too, could have been carved from stone.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker & Reader, Artorias the Abysswalker/Lord's Blade Ciaran, Dragon Slayer Ornstein & Reader, Dragon Slayer Ornstein/Reader, Hawkeye Gough & Reader, Lord's Blade Ciaran & Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, characterization. come to my office, let's talk about it. no, no, don't mind that my office has a million food wrappers and water bottles─i'm gross, i _know._
> 
> you know who's also gross? well, according to dark souls lore it could be smough (most likely some other people, too) because he eats pulverized bones! wacky, huh? anyway, not the point I'm trying to make here. _characterizing_ characters that have no dialogue in the media they're from is a hard thing to do, and considering i'm not a professional writer and this is more of a side hobby than anything else, it's **remarkably** harder. if my characterization of characters in this does not match up with fanon or something similar, i'm sorry. really. i live in a hole and pay attention to nothing. 
> 
> so! that being said, the characterization of ornstein or even gwyn may be completely off, and if that's enough to turn you away, i understand. thanks for reading!

Several days had passed since you had been commissioned. To your astonishment, you were sought out by one of the faceless assistants belonging to the council residing in the city of Gods. The crowned jewel of Lordran.

Your nerves had yet to subside. 

After the sudden and wholly unexpected desertion of Lord Gwyn’s firstborn, things had been quiet. No soul dared to even utter the name of the banished God of War; no one knew what to say. 

And so, the kingdom moved along, in forced, muted silence. Everyone continued their lives, statues were taken down - to be put somewhere else or destroyed, you didn’t know - and the Lord of Cinder made no mention, nor shed one ounce of light on that of his firstborn’s blasphemous transgression. Everyone tried their best to pretend that it didn't happen.

The image of crumbling statues hidden under moth-eaten sheets plagued you more than you'd like to admit. You weren't sure why. 

Months floated by like a mid-summer gust, and finally, things began to creak back to life. It was almost a relief - as if the entire kingdom let out a collectively held breath - when the rumor mill started spinning its yarns again. Whispers of wicked things crawling under a township flitted from one person’s lips to the next, and slowly, hysteria began to build. 

That was when the knighting truly began.

A fortnight ago, Sir Artorias of the Silver Knights was the last to be knighted by Lord Gwyn. As quickly as news of the abyss had alighted over the land, the newly appointed knight had been dispatched. You had a hunch the job would take far more than one man to complete - knight of your lord he may be, an army he was not. 

With the Wolf Knight's return, word of the spreading primeval dark oozed from every fervent mouth in Lordran. Shortly thereafter, you were summoned to meet with the Lord of Cinder - you were to paint the likeness of his four knights. 

You couldn’t help but ponder about the strange timing.

You dwelled in a quaint town residing on a small, easily-forgettable stretch of land. This, of course, led to your mortification upon seeing a royal carriage on your doorstep some four nights ago; unwanted attention from onlookers made your skin itch - attention of _that_ stature made your blood boil until it evaporated.

An official letter of summons was placed gingerly in your hands, its golden calligraphy and wax seal glinting in the honeyed sunlight. The beauty of the parchment had been nearly swallowed by its polarizing braggadociousness. Conversely, its contents were scrupulous and meager; fanciful language needn't be wasted on a denizen of a forest town, you supposed.

You had packed your world into a few handsome leather bags you stole from a nobleman some time ago, and found yourself settled into the cabin compartment of the carriage. The ride was smoother than it had any right being, and you idly wondered if magic played a vital part in that.

Now, you found yourself sitting in your much too large room. Initially, it was hard for you to take in Anor Londo and all its majesty; the architecture alone was enough to take your breath away. Its heights had your brain floating in vertigo and panic if you looked too long.

The people were not too dissimilar.

You wrung your hands as you sat in the ringing silence of the room. 

Out of all the artists strewn about the kingdom, he’d chosen **you**. Or, at least, one of his council's assistants did. How did they ever find out about you? You rarely showed your work - art had always been a personal thing, something completely your own. Here and there you’d sell a piece, but you’d mostly pick-pocket to sustain yourself. It wasn’t an honorable path, you knew, but it was one you’d been on for some time. You weren’t likely to change.

A soft knock tore you from your thoughts. Your hands dropped to your sides, and you brushed the hairline wrinkles from your clothes as you stood. 

Accepting that you were about as put-together as you could get, you let out a sigh.

“Yes?” you prompted the individual behind the door. “You may come in, it's unlocked.”

The door opened to reveal a young handmaid. She couldn’t be a day over seventeen. 

She bowed her head respectfully and made her way into the room.

“My lady, these are for you,” the handmaid hummed and settled a small stack of clothing in your arms before continuing. "His lordship will speak with you now.”

The prospect of meeting Lord Gwyn and his knights made your stomach lurch unpleasantly.

You raised the plainclothes up slightly with a kind smile. “Thank you.”

With another slight bow that you returned this time, the young woman made her way out of the room. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again with your nerves for company. 

*** * ***

The cavernous corridor echoed with each footfall, and the presence of the faithful Silver Knights stationed at every turn did nothing to fill the space. They were silent, mere shadows pinned to the walls like dead insects.

You kept your distance. 

The large, oakwood doors that blocked your entry to the throne room were daunting as you approached from the staircase on the right - the two Silver Knights armed with the obtrusive weapons in their grasp made them even more so. 

You swallowed the butterflies that made a leap for your throat, and tried your best to wipe away the dampness of your hands.

As you neared the top of the steps, the sound of metal clanging together took your eyes up and away from your feet. The two knights crossed their halberds over the door.

One of the knights grunted, “State your business, human."

Biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper, you looked up at the knight who had spoken. The black space where his eyes ought to be loomed high, high above you, and the flame of irritation lacing your gums was quickly snuffed out.

“Good sirs,” you greeted as cordially as you could manage. “Lord Gwyn has requested an audience with me." Silence weighed heavily in the air as they did not move. "...I suggest you do not keep his lordship waiting any longer than need be.”

The knights chuckled behind their helms. 

“We guard this door," the first one that spoke started again, "and bar those unfit to be in our Lord's presence.” He leaned forward, the 'T' of his helm too close to your face. "You have yet to state your business or identify yourself. I _suggest_ you tell us posthaste, as you wish to 'not keep his lordship waiting any longer than need be.'"

The two knights shared a cruel laugh at the embarrassed flush that worked its way up your face. You felt small.

You muttered, voice barely a hair above a whisper, “I'm a painter, and I have been commissioned by none other than our fine Lord himself." 

A pregnant pause hung in the air for a few seconds before the knights lowered their weapons completely as they settled back into their shadows against the wall. Neither said a word when the door magically opened before you. The knight on the right nodded his head brusquely, motioning you inside.

You scuttled past them quickly.

Sunlight bathed the room in a permanent brilliance from the inside, and the golden glow from stain-glass windows filtered in fractals. Your eyes adjusted to the light as you stood there, and the presence of Lord Gwyn ushered you into an instinctual bow. 

“My lord,” you greeted. You clenched your hands as you leered down at your shoes.

Lord Gwyn chuckled lightly, the noise rumbling in his chest. “So our resident artist makes an appearance.” He leaned back in his throne. "Hardly anyone has seen you leave your chambers - the council thought you had gotten lost in our marvelous city. Or possibly eaten."

Mortification bloomed over you as you rose.

“N-no, my lord,” you stuttered. "I wasn't sure I was allowed to wonder about."

A boisterous laugh echoed off the marble as it bounced around the room.

"Oh, dear, you are no prisoner here," his unfathomably large hand gestured vaguely around, "You may go wherever you may please." He stopped. "Well, within reason." 

"Yes," you nodded, "Thank you, my lord." 

Gwyn put his hands together with a resounding clap that sounded suspiciously like thunder - you couldn't help but flinch at the sound.

“Well, now! Down to business: I suppose you are in wonderment as to why I would have wanted an audience with you?” He hummed. “To my knowledge, you are here to paint my knights. My council arranged to have you brought here, but I must say,” he idly scratched at his beard then waved his hand noncommitally, “I’ve had little interest in the process.”

Confusion furrowed your brow. “My lord?”

“We’ve had many artists wander these halls. Surely, upon your arrival you had seen our grand statues-” thoughts of the traitorous first-born plagued you momentarily, “-all of which have come from esteemed artists across Lordran. All hand-picked, and not by me. As long as the commissioned piece is finished and looks as good as it should, I have no reason _to_ care." You could understand the logic in that. "While I have many paintings of my own, there is still one I wish to acquire.” Gwyn fidgeted on his marble throne. "The air is ripe with change; things have to be done sooner, rather than later."

A ghost of a frown masked his features. It was uncharacteristic enough to be shocking.

"My knights will be busy with things on the horizon in the coming months, and, as tradition dictates," a godly sigh, "A commemorative painting is in order." Gwyn looked down at you, slightly taken aback upon seeing your small frame still standing there. You found that odd. 

"And so," he grunted, "that is where you come in - to an extent, I am certain you are the only one properly equipped to create a piece worthy of being added to my collection.”

A resounding snap of his large fingers sizzled the air, and suddenly, a figure you had yet to acknowledge placed a file in his hand. They were clad in a suit of intrucuit golden armor, their helm carved into the likeness of a lion. _Odd_. Your eyes tried to make sense of the armor’s overlapping plates, but the figure’s attention flicked to you. 

You cast your eyes down to the floor as embarrassment crawled up your neck - you knew better than to stare.

“...and my council had **quite** the time trying to find your whereabouts,” Lord Gwyn humorously rumbled as his eyes roved down the file in his hands. “It is written here that you live a quiet life, far from any sort of notable populace. Quite strange,” he noted toward himself. 

You felt like you were being put on trial; how much information did that file hold? Who had written it?

“Bid me,” Gwyn tore you away from your thoughts. “Why would someone in possession of such talent hole themselves away? Does the prospect of notoriety strike fear in you? I have seen better work,” he mused, “but you could make a generous living.”

Something strange in your chest caught, burning your throat. You felt like you had been laid bare. Closing your eyes to collect yourself, you remembered with some bitterness that you were bound to serve him, and it would behoove you to answer any questions he threw at you. He was your lord - it did not matter if his honesty hurt you.

“Well… my lord, if I am to be truthful with you,” you hesitated slightly, “I… do not share my work willingly. Nor do I wish to. But, it is with great honor I serve you - to be hailed upon by your lordship is beyond words. Though, if I may, I-” your eyes flitted anxiously to the figure by Gwyn’s side, “-I cannot surmise why you would pick a recluse for this assignment.” You ground your teeth. "You... my lord, you even admitted to seeing better work."

The smell of ozone grew heavy in the terse silence. 

Gwyn shifted in his seat and crossed his ankles. How his bare feet did not catch a chill from the cool marble was beyond you.

His hands clasped together and rested on his midriff.

“In all my years, I’ve yet to see a simple human have such… **particular** talents so well developed.” The Lord of Cinder leaned toward you, his greatness sparking dread all the way down to your feet. “I am comfortable in my decision, and I beseech you do not question it,” he warned.

Instantly you bowed, arms glued to your sides as you bent forward at the waist. 

“Yes, my lord," you rushed out, "My apologies.”

Lord Gwyn settled back into his throne, once again the apogee of might and Godliness. 

He decreed, “Painter of Nowhere: you shall accompany my knights separately in the coming weeks. Capture their likenesses, and present your work to my council. They will oversee your assignment. Then, we shall discuss the details of the final painting once they are satisfied with the results.”

Anxiety crashed over you, and the tendrils of your insecurity wormed in your stomach.

You bowed once more. 

“I will try my best, my lord.”

“That you will.”

*** * ***

Sunlight drifted through your windows. Someone had opened them - for you could hear the birds outside on your pane - and parted the thick, mauve drapes that hung from the ceiling. 

For however briefly, you drifted between the realm of sleep and wakefulness. Responsibility did not exist, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

That was until the knocks thundered off of your door. 

Disorientation hit you like an arrow to the chest as you frantically tried to remember where you were. Realization dawned on you, however, as it did every morning of your stay in the city of the Gods. Your hand went to your head and you blinked several times to jog your memory. 

“ _My lady!_ ” The handmaiden hailed through the wooden door. “ _‘Tis a fine morning. Breakfast has been served, and I am to remind you that you will be attending to Sir Artorias today_.”

You scrambled out from underneath the duvet and ran to the door - you tripped on the carpeting. Impatiently, you wrestled with the doorknob to reveal your wide-eyed handmaiden. _I must look a mess._

Running fingers through the tangles of your hair, you began to bombard the young woman with questions.

“Which one would Knight Artorias be? Oh, no, how long has he been expecting me?” You let out an exasperated groan at the shocked silence you rendered the woman into and moved to the wardrobe. “ _Please_ , my fair lady, tell me, is he… might he be the one with gilded armor?” 

The woman blushed at the unwarranted title and began to stutter, “Uh-um, n-no, my lady, Knight Artorias is the one with the great wolf. Have you not heard of the Great Tales?” _I’ve been entirely too busy living under a rock. What do you think?_ “The one you would be thinking of is Sir Ornstein, the dragon slayer.”

You nearly dropped the clothes bundled in your arms onto the floor. In two strides, you made your way over to the maiden. Peeking your head out the door and over her shoulder, you looked down both ends of the hall and breathed a sigh of relief upon finding it empty. 

As carefully as you could, you grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her into the room, closing the door behind her. 

“ _Dragon slayer_?" you stage-whispered conspiritorally. "The one adorned with the lion’s helm is a dragon slayer?” You could hardly believe it. Internally, you chastised yourself; you knew all of Gwyn’s knights were capable, but Sir Ornstein was so… lithe. Graceful looking. It was hardly realistic of you to imagine him felling a dragon.

The handmaiden’s eyes darted around the room before finally settling on yours. You wondered if pulling her into the room had been wildly inappropriate; you hardly had any experience with them - you were always too poor for servants - so you hoped she wouldn't mind your ignorance.

“Y-yes. He is the one with the lion’s helm. Though,” her eyes flicked away as a small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, “He’s hardly the most… _alluring_.” A blush coated her cheeks. “If I am to be completely honest with you, I find myself jealous - _you_ get to be around Sir Artorias all day.”

Confusion muddled your head before understanding cleared away the fog.

“My fair lady,” you started in a playful, scandalous tone, “Are you… **smitten** with the good knight Artorias?”

The smile illuminated her face.

“I do believe you should hurry, breakfast ought to be over soon,” she craftily dodged. You dropped the subject for now.

The two of you exchanged farewells, and you quickly got dressed after she left. 

You snagged a leather-bound book of blank parchment, a lump of charcoal, and headed out the door.

You had made a friend, and you figured that ought to make your stay a little less lonely.

*** * ***

For the better part of the day, you were removing hair from your clothes. Knight Artorias’ wolf, Sif, became increasingly more amiable over time as you gained her trust. She was larger than any sort of dog you had seen before, and at first, that had you nervous. 

It was around noon, hours after the initial, albeit awkward, meeting. You were watching the good sir spar with a fellow knightess - the Lord’s Blade Ciaran. She’d been cordial enough to you, but you sensed an underlying edge to the woman. You decided to let that be for now.

During their spar, Sif wandered over to you and sat by your leg. You stopped your sketching and flicked an eye over to the wolf, before returning back to your work. She was panting with the sun high in the sky, and her breathing shook your leg slightly.

An hour later, she laid down on her side. Upon glancing at her, Sif’s tail began to thump lightly against the worn concrete. Boldly, you extended a hand to let her sniff, and when that passed the test, you ran a tentative hand down her flank. Her fur was thick and coarse, but the texture felt nice nonetheless.

For the rest of the afternoon, you sat on the ground next to Sif, drawing. Consequently, her fur stuck in your plainclothes; it was mildly irritating, but it was a transgression you supposed you could overlook.

“...She likes you,” came an unexpected voice. You looked up at the shadowed face sunk behind the blue-clothed helm. It was Knight Artorias. 

Instinctively, you began to rise from your seat on the bench in the courtyard before his armored hand extended slightly to stop you - you sat back down. Hesitantly, you patted the empty space on the marble bench and offered him a smile. Carefully, he settled down next to you. 

“I take it her trust is a hard thing to aquire?” you jested. Your eyes turned to Sif, who was sleeping soundly in the sun on the other side of the courtyard.

“‘Tis. Sif is decidedly cautious and trusts very little. For her to take a liking to you so soon… it’s nothing short of remarkable.” His voice was soft, kind. Everything about him was sweet but cautious - much like his ward whom he loved so dearly.

You smiled, “Then, I find myself honored to be in her good graces.”

Silence settled over the two of you, less awkward than you had expected it to be. The wind rustled through the tree branches far above your head, and for a moment, you drank in the coolness of the breeze.

“Sir Artorias?” You popped the bubble of stillness.

He shook his head, “Please, call me by my name only. Formalities… they are not necessary, at least not with me.”

You nodded, even though it felt wrong; you were not of the same station… to address each other as such felt odd.

“Okay, friend Artorias.” You substituted a new title. “How are you?”

“How…?” He trailed off. “Forgive me, your query caught me off guard.”

You tilted your head.

“Is such a question not normally asked of you?” The thought saddened you a little.

A quiet laugh rumbled from behind the blue cloth and metal cover shielding the top part of his head.

“No, I daresay it is not.” You noted the lack of bitterness in his voice. He'd come to terms with it.

You frowned.

“Well, **I’m** asking you now: how are you?”

Another chime-like laugh fell from his lips. You couldn’t help but grin.

His helm turned toward you, sunlight slightly illuminating his features. The corners of his lips were turned up, but that was all you could see, the rest being shrouded in dark.

“I am quite well, I thank you. It was a bit strange being watched today, but seeing how Sif made a friend..." his head turned toward the wolf, then back to you. "I suppose it was well worth it. Now, if I may, how are-”

“Knight Artorias,” a sharp voice cut in. 

Artorias’ reaction was visceral - his sunny demeanor switched off as his spine straightened up from his characteristic hunched-over posture. You didn’t know why, but it upset you to see him slink back into his shell. It was as if you had built a house of cards, carefully, only to see it come crumbling down with the next breeze sent its way.

Your eyes shot over to the interloper before your stomach dropped: it was Sir Ornstein.

“Captain,” came Artorias’ automatic, respectful reply. “Is everything alright?”

Ornstein lowered his helm slightly.

“Yes, things are fine. Lord Gwyn sent me to fetch the painter.” 

Your stomach twisted oddly at the new title you’d be christened with. It hadn’t bothered you when it fell from other people’s lips, but with his cold, metallic voice…

You found that you disliked it greatly. 

Politely, you bid Sir Artorias farewell and slid behind the dragon slayer as he turned toward the direction from whence he came. 

In silence you traveled, and it gave you insight on just how much power his rank held. Every Silver Knight you passed bowed their head and softly pounded the butt of their weapon on the floor twice.

“ _One for the dragons, the foe of an era,_  
_And one for the man who bests them all._ ”

The chant had been muttered in your village, once, long ago - the feeling was somewhat nostalgic upon hearing it again. 

But it was the power that he exuted left you in awe. You realized that your handmaiden had not been lying to you; how many dragons had he slain? The more you studied him, the more you realized he was likely a lot more capable than you had first believed him to be. The knowledge that he could kill you before you could manage a scream was terrifying, and, to your disgust, exhilarating. The morbidity of that settled with a copper tinge on the back of your tongue.

He stopped abruptly without warning before turning a corner, and consequently, you found yourself slamming face-first into his armored back. A yelp escaped your mouth before you could quell it, and your hand flew to your face. Tears immediately welled up from the pain and from the fact you hit your nose. Warmth began to pool between your fingers, and you were too stunned to move.

“ _Do you not watch where you **walk**_?” the dragon slayer hissed. His flowing, red plume brushed past your arm as he spun around. 

“N-no, I mean, _yes_ , I _do_ , I just… was not expecting you to stop so suddenly,” you blubbered, embarrassed and angry. 

Belatedly, you saw that you barely reached the middle of his breastplate. A cold sweat broke out in the middle of your back.

Luckily, your tears had stopped, but the blood filling the in-between of your cupped fingers had not.

“What are you doing?” He questioned. He sounded thoroughly irritated, and you would have loved to kick him if that wouldn’t leave you with a bloody nose and a possible broken foot. 

His golden hands reached toward you, and your body reared back instinctively. Ornstein’s body froze upon seeing the blood streaming down your face and between your fingers. Mortification rushed through you again. 

Deeply, he bowed in proper, arm tucked under his breastplate.

“Forgive me, my lady, I did not intentionally harm you, but my reaction was sour and unkind,” Ornstein apologized. His voice was molten - like his metallic and cold disposition from earlier had been melted down. “Please, allow me to heal the wounds that I afflicted.”

Your eyes widened to the size of the moon, and you nearly forgot about the blood in your hands. 

“Uh,” your voice cracked slightly, “Y-yes, I... would appreciate that very much.” 

In a swift motion, he pulled a worn talisman from somewhere under the layers of his armor and knelt before you. Even then, he was roughly your height. It was odd to see his helm so up close and trained on you. Scratches you hadn’t seen before were called to your attention, and you found that you wanted to ask about them.

The dragon slayer dipped his helm once more, tucking the talisman close to his chest. A circle of pure light circled around you both, and healing warmth began to envelop you as you tried to decipher the runes around the circle. 

Tentatively, you sniffed, only to find the flow of blood had been stemmed. The circle of light started to fade, and Ornstein tilted his helm toward you. 

Your mouth was dry, but you managed to mutter, “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded in acknowledgment and rose. Once again, he was a statue, worlds above you as he began walking toward the throne room. 

You followed close behind. 

*** * ***

Hurriedly, you wiped the blood off your hands and onto your plainclothes - dog fur and now blood, they would most certainly need to be washed - and rubbed the lower half of your face on your shoulder to get rid of the blood residing there. 

Hoping that you were at least a little presentable, you watched Sir Ornstein bend his helm to the two Silver Knights guarding the doors. They nodded back, pounded their weapons softly off the marble, and slid back against the wall. You couldn't help but glare at them as you walked past - you felt a gross sense of confidence with their Captain at your side.

You did not see the confused look Ornstein wore under his helm at your peacocking.

Slowly, the doors parted before you. The knight wandered in first, then rested in his rightful place next to his lord. He looked proud.

You stood before Lord Gwyn and bowed in greeting. 

“My lord.”

Gwyn drooped against his throne, his crowned head leaning in the curve of his palm. “Ah, and how is the painter today? Was your time with Knight Artorias spent well?” he queried.

Upon realizing you no longer held your leather-bound containing the Artorias sketches, ignominy pressed down on you. Where did you leave the book?

Your mouth clicked open, then slid shut as you fumbled with what to say.

You tried again: “My lord, it seems that I have...”

Trailing off, you watched Ornstein hand Gwyn a leather book, of which the latter took carefully in his too-big hands. It was ... **your** book. The dragon slayer kept his helm in your direction as he bowed respectfully and stepped back from the throne. You sent him a quizzical look.

“You have what?” Lord Gwyn asked as he thumbed through the first few pages. 

Your nerves crackled unpleasantly under your skin.

“It, uh, it seems that… I have only produced _charcoal_ sketches.” You changed the topic mid-sentence. You would have to ask the knight how he came in contact with your leather-bound, but for now, your lord didn’t need to know that you’d lost it. “I could paint them for your lordship if you would like.” 

Lord Gwyn’s brows furrowed as he eyed a specific page. Your heart shrunk, and your mouth began to fill with saliva. _Oh, no…_

“These are...” the Lord of Cinder trailed off. _Oh, Gods, no, please don’t hate them─_ “Exceptional.” He spun the book to face you and the knight by his side. Ornstein shifted to get a better look. You nearly melted into a puddle. “You encapsulated my knight with such detail… I would typically leave this type of trivial decision-making up to one of my councils - I admit, I only summoned you now out of curiosity rather than need - but I declare that I will see this through to the end. It is my painting, after all.” Confusion clouded your mind as he gingerly closed the book. “I shall personally see this assignment through - **no** council. If you have any concerns, you will come to me directly.” 

Awe struck you dumb. The… _the_ Lord Gwyn himself would oversee your assignment? Someone as powerful and busy as your lordship would personally work with you? Excitement and pride swelled inside your stomach, and a giddy thrill thumbed up your spine. 

“It would be an honor, my lord, truly.”

Of course he would want to directly manage this project - they were _his_ knights. And, as he said: it was his painting. The thought didn't diminish your high, surprisingly.

Lord Gwyn dipped his crowned head in your direction, and your heart soared even more.

“Tomorrow, you will accompany Hawkeye Gough,” Gwyn notified you as he handed your leather-bound back to Ornstein. “You are dismissed.”

With one final bow and a “ _thank you_ ”, you were walking through the throne room doors, and the tell-tale clank of armor was not far behind you. 

You exited the chapel before acknowledging your follower. The moon was high in the sky, and his armor reflected the cool light in a strange, hauntingly beautiful way.

“Congratulations, dear painter,” Ornstein lauded. You couldn’t help the smile that cracked your face in two.

You thanked him, “I appreciate your words _and_ save back there. How ever did you find my book?”

The dragon slayer produced it from a compartment within his armor and delicately handed it back to you.

“You had dropped it when you ran into me,” he explained, voice cool behind his helm.

At least it wasn't completely frozen, you found yourself thinking hopefully. You wondered when, or if, you would be able to find that metaphorical chink in his armor again - the one that caused his tone to fracture into that molten state you were privy to earlier. Still, this disposition was much more favorable to that of the sharp and cold one he bore when he first sought you out.

“Ah,” you sighed, “I see.”

A cool wind glided by you both, and you allowed yourself a deep breath. It was aromatic in the way that only wind could strive to be.

“Well, my lady,” Ornstein broke the silence. He tilted his helm down. “I bid you good night.”

Returning the gesture, you said your farewell and made your way back to the chamber hall. 

Sconces were lit, providing light at every available angle. They were warm, too. Autumn was fast approaching, and accompanying it, were the cooler nights. The cold did not bother you much, but you were grateful to see a small fire crackling in the hearth upon entering your chambers.

You slept soundly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OKAY, SO, LISTEN UP:**  
> 
> 
> i'm kinda? back from hiatus. i've edited the two chapters because there were a few things that either a) didn't make sense b) bothered me or c) needed to be changed for characterization/plot purposes. so, with that in mind! the chapters are still _fundamentally_ the same, but i believe that they read a bit better now.
> 
> a new chapter is coming soon. I'm not giving a date because god knows i don't stick to due dates for shit SO, believe me when i say soon <3333 thank you all who still comment and read this, you mean the absolute world to me

The morning was like every morning had been since you arrived; your handmaiden announced herself with a flurry of knocks, effectively rousing you into a state of disorientation, again. You held a hand to your cheek, trying to wake up faster, _again_. Though, as she went about your room making your bed and grabbing your plainclothes - all while yammering about absolute nonsense as you stood there yawning - you could tell something was different. 

“Is there something the matter?” you questioned, hesitantly. 

She faltered slightly but continued rummaging through your wardrobe. 

“Why, my lady, nothing is the matter. Such a _query_ ,” the young woman tsked. “You must _still_ be tired, I know it has not been easy acclimating to-”

You interrupted, exhaustion draining any ounce of patience you might have had, “My lovely, fair lady.” You rubbed your eyes and ran a hand down your face. “Does my handmaiden have something urgent to relay? Or will she continue to blubber?” 

The woman’s furtive ministrations stopped completely. Whisps of concern began to coil in your belly. 

Suddenly, she spun around, clothes bunched tightly in her clenched hands - excitement painted her face, and her wide eyes frightened you. 

“My lady, bid me: what was he **like**?” she rushed out. 

“Who are you talking ab─”

She let out an exasperated sigh.

“Oh, Sir _Artorias_!” the handmaiden elaborated with an eye roll. “You have to tell me what he was like!” Remembering her tone, she curbed her zealous curiosity. “ **Please** ," she pleaded, "my lady, I beg of you.”

A tiny laugh escaped through your lips. All that beating around the bush just so she could ask you about Artorias? 

“Alright, _alright_ ,” you said placatingly with a giggle. “What does my nosy friend wish to know?”

The young woman ran to the side of the bed opposite of you and grabbed one of the wooden bedposts. You did likewise. It felt liberating to act so... wistfully. You couldn't remember a time you felt so unabashedly silly.

“Is he…” she began shyly. “Is he _handsome_?” A blush formed on her cheeks.

You hid half of your face behind the pole as you hummed, feigning deep consideration. 

“Hmm…”

She pleaded, “Oh, _please_ do not tease me so, my lady.” 

“Fine,” you laughed as you leaned over the bed. You whispered conspiratorially, “He’s **quite** handsome. And kind. The good knight was positively sweeter than sugar, I assure you.”

This awarded you with a squeal. Your handmaiden fell dramatically on the bed, then looked up at you, head upside down.

“Oh, have you _any_ idea how lucky you are?” She flipped over onto her front as she regarded you. “I am _green_ with envy-”

A knock. Then, another.

You both froze.

A few heartbeats passed, and you rose from your kneel on the bed. You picked up your voice from the floor.

“Uh,” your voice warbled. “Yes? Who is it?”

Your handmaiden jumped off the mauve duvet, and silently scurried to pick up the clothes she left on the dresser.

“ _My lady, it is Ornstein_ ," your eyes grew wide, “ _I have come to take you to Sir Hawkeye Gough_.” You looked down at your rumpled sleeping robes, then sent a panicked look toward your handmaiden. “ _I shall wait until you are ready for departure._ ” 

The young woman tossed you your clothes and turned to make the bed as you headed behind the privacy screen. Your hands fumbled with the straps and buckles of the pants, and in your haste, you accidentally popped a button off the top of your tunic. A sigh forced its way out of your nose.

Minutes drizzled by, and you found yourself tripping your way to the door as you slid your footwear on. 

“I am ready!” you told Ornstein through the door. The handmaiden handed you your leather-bound with the charcoal tucked in the cover. You mouthed a grateful _thank you_ , and swung the door open.

In all his holy glory, stood the dragon slayer. Your back broke a cold sweat as you acknowledged his height - he had to have grown a few inches. His armor was recently polished, the smell of the solution he used still wafting off of him. Your warped reflection cast on the under-part of his helm stared back at you until he began to fidget with the open scrutiny. 

“Oh," you ducked your head, "My sincerest apologies, I had not meant to stare,” you apologized. A beat of silence passed. “...Your armor is beautiful today.”

Your hands clammed up as you saw his back draw up, his posture becoming even more severe.

He was... preening.

"Thank you," his helm tilted down, "A knight's armor must be kept in pristine condition at all times."

"Well, what about the scratches?" you asked, innocuously. "You're shiny and clean, assuredly, but not pristine."

A resounding scoff echoed from inside his helm. His stance shifted into that proud, arrogant shape you had become accustomed to - disappointment fell on your shoulders. 

He derided, "You buff them out. Though, I can't expect someone like you to understand _why_ we keep them." The dragon slayer shifted away and looked condescendingly at your shorter frame. "After all, you don't take much pride in your work, do you?"

Your nails bit half-moons into the palm not holding the leather-bound.

"No," you swallowed thickly against the emotion stuck in your throat. "I guess not." 

The leather-bound in your grasp began to slip as you focused on the pain of your other hand. 

His helm glanced down. 

Ornstein’s armored fingers pointed to the book in your hand. “Shall I carry that again? You look like you might drop it,” he chuffed, tone a frozen tundra. 

“No,” you adjusted your grip - your voice warbled with hurt. “I consider myself capable enough to keep a hold of it on my own.”

A metallic huff resounded inside his armor.

“Really, now,” he stated, inflection flat.

You didn’t rise to the slight barb; he already hurt your feelings, there was no need to make things worse. 

“Alright then.” The dragon slayer reached around you to close the door completely. You had forgotten that your handmaiden was in there. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and wondered how much she heard. 

Something close to hate numbed you as fell into step behind him.

*** * ***

“Is he really always that… insufferable?” you queried, angry tears pricking behind your eyes. 

Gough paused and looked up from his bow. He’d been running maintenance on his weapon for a little over an hour now, and his stillness made him the perfect model. Artorias was fast, incredibly so, which made it hard for you to get more accurate details of his armor. 

Thankfully, Gough was not a fast fellow. 

He’d hardly spoken to you outside of your introductory meeting after Ornstein had left, but he hadn’t been untoward; he was simply a giant of few words. As you sat and drew the languid dips in his helm, you conjectured he was merely the contemplative type.

“I assume you are referring to the Captain,” Gough surmised. His large helm turned back toward his bow. “He is a good man. You ought not to judge him too harshly, you do not know him well enough.” 

You felt your cheeks burn with the soft admonishment. 

Tucking the piece of charcoal back into the cover of your book, you wiped your dirtied hands off on your plainclothes. Another pleasant breeze with a hint of autumn drifted by. You firmly crunched a stray leaf that drifted by your foot.

“That does not seem to stop him from judging **me** ," you bit out, "He's venemous, prideful, _rude_ -" 

Frustration coated your tongue with a bitter taste.

Truthfully, he should not bother you so much - you were only there to fulfill an assignment, and nothing more. You did not see him all too often, either, with the exception of his unprompted arrival earlier that morning. Briefly, you considered ignoring his presence forever, considered never speaking to him again. What would he say to that? With the rate of his ever-changing demeanor, you couldn't get a read on him; you could never tell how he would react to anything.

It was as alluring as it was completely and totally _insufferable_.

A deep chuckle reverberated in the giant’s chest, slightly vibrating the ground beneath your feet. 

Gough prompted, “Give Sir Ornstein some time - then, you might come to find his company more agreeable.”

A huff forced its way out of your nose.

You pouted, “ _Nothing_ about that man is agreeable.”

Another laugh vibrated its way through the marble and into your feet. 

“Oh, come now," he hummed softly. "He will get better - simply give him time.”

You could find nothing to say to that.

*** * ***

Much like the night previous, Lord Gwyn took to your sketches with much exuberancy. The stroke to your ego did not last, however. 

The dragon slayer was stationed next to his lord, once again, and idly, you noted he looked like a smug cat next to his master.

He did not look at you, and he did not follow you out of the throne room. You failed at not letting your bitterness grow as you headed back to your chambers.

Lord Gwyn sent a messenger to notify you that you wouldn't be accompanying anyone the following day; his knights, after all, did have their duties. You had to work around their schedules. 

You had to admit, you were looking forward to some quiet time. It had only been two days of actual work, but you were exhausted. 

It was sitting by the lit hearth in your room that had you realize that this assignment was a lot more taxing than you had originally thought it would be.

You slept on the floor that night, more than a little homesick.

*** * ***

Standing in the middle of your room, you began to ponder what it was that you were supposed to be doing. It had been four days since your last conversation with Lord Gwyn.

Comparatively, you knew your assignment was not very important when stood next to those of his knights’. And, you surmised, you couldn’t expect them to all sit still for a few weeks so you could do your job. 

That was, _apparently_ , too much to ask.

It felt strange that you had not seen hide nor hair of any of his knights or his lordship for several days. You felt like they had forgotten about you. It did not seem like an outlandish assumption.

The only person you saw daily was your handmaiden. It was nice to have a friend, but even then she couldn’t stay long enough to placate your loneliness. 

Your windows were open, again, and the sound of birds singing on your pane called your attention. Sunlight filtered in serenely, and for a moment, you felt peace.

You wandered over to the rich goblet drapes that were pulled to the side and peered out the window. Three sparrows sat on the sill, singing to themselves and their voyeur. A small smile touched your lips.

Your eyes flicked up briefly, and to your shock, you were met with the sight of a lively garden. The knowledge of the famed gardens of Anor Londo was not lost upon you, but you couldn’t believe you’d forgotten about them.

Grabbing your leather-bound, you wandered back out into the chamber hall. It was high time you drew for pleasure, and it would be nice to be surrounded by nature. The city of the Gods was beautiful in its own right but quite dense with busybodies and marble.

It would be a nice change of pace to see some greenery.

*** * ***

The aroma hit you first. Before you’d even rounded the corner, the overpowering smell of various flowers ornamenting the garden had ensnared you. The aromatic scent of blooming honeysuckle filled your nose and your mouth pleasantly, reminding you of times long forgotten. 

It was hard to believe that the scenery was better than the smell, but you knew it to be true. Hues were affectionately painted onto each petal in the courtyard, and it was nearly impossible to see the paths through the overabundant vibrancy. 

You wandered for what felt like hours, and the runny, egg-yolk sun that slid across the sky notified you that you had. In the back gardens, past the freshly clipped hedge mazes and well-tended koi ponds, you found a small, enclosed area. Purple orchids climbed up the walls like living wallpaper, and bouts of jasmine hung miraculously from the wooden rafters. 

The sun was low in the sky, lower than when you had last checked; you paid it no heed. Charcoal stained your fingers, and smudges of black were smeared on your face from pushing stray strands of hair behind your ears. You were fixing the sketches of Artorias from earlier in the week, but you’d moved on from that some time ago. 

You regarded the lion on the page that leered back at you - its teeth, pulled back in a permanent snarl, its odd, golden mane framing its face. A red plume flowed free from the back of its head, and your heart soared at how you achieved to capture the likeness without its doppelganger.

A frown marred your features upon thinking of the man; you had been drawing him for an hour, and you had yet to actually _think_ of him.

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot went unnoticed by you as you rolled the eraser between your palms, deep in thought. 

Golden hues from the sun reflecting off of something in the corner of your eye caught your attention, and with a surprised screech, you realized it was a figure. His golden armor borrowed the sun’s light, much like the moon, and through your shock, you felt your heart gutter at the beauty. 

Indignance wormed its way inside you.

You barked, “You scared the living _daylights_ out of me!” You leaned to fetch the lump of charcoal that had flown off of your lap when you jolted.

An amused laugh rumbled behind the lion’s helm.

“Had I known I contained the element of stealth, I would have used it better.”

You threw him a scowl. 

You muttered, “I expect nothing less from you.”

Ornstein hummed behind his helm as he entered the small, enclosed area. You watched him carefully lean against a bare spot on the wall. You felt a glimmer of fondness at his calculated movements before you scoffed despite yourself.

"Why are you here?" you deadpanned.

"I..." he paused, his voice ringing metallically inside of his helm. His shoulders tensed, then slumped with internal defeat - you made no mention about the flowers he squished with the movement. "I wanted to apologize, my lady." His voice wasn't warm but it was... remorseful.

The dragon slayer felt guilty.

"What," you deadpanned again.

A resplendent sigh escaped him as he tilted his helm up at the rafters.

"My behavior this morn was petulant and childlike - what I said was unforgivably rude," the snout of his helm suddenly turned to you, "And for that, I am **dreadfully** sorry."

With each word, you watched him thaw; like snow on a warm spring morning, the frost of his voice melted in the sun. You wondered if he was only this honest and bare when he caused someone pain - there was something poetic in that, you thought.

You groaned, and let your head rest against the bed of flowers at your back. "You, sir, are giving me whiplash with your mood swings. I would much prefer you to tell me you hate me-"

"I do not hate you," he rushed out, tone serious. "I deeply apologize for giving you that impression." He paused, then whispered, "I wear this armor so often, it seems I have forgotten where it stops and where I begin."

You tilted your head in confusion.

"What?"

Ornstein grunted and directed his gaze at the gravel under his sabatons, "I act cold, and unfeeling, and there _is_ use in functioning this way. But I do not know when to turn it off, and it becomes harmful."

You began to deduce that there was more to this, and the root to it was probably a lot deeper than he expected it to be; he was willingly laying himself bare - who knew the last time he had done that - and you knew it was going to exhaust him if he continued.

You received a genuine apology and a decent enough explanation - that was enough for you.

"Hey," you said softly. His helm did not rise.

You looked around for a moment before your eye caught something - many _somethings_.“Do you like orchids?” you questioned. 

The dragon slayer's attention was back on you, and you noticed his posture was still slumped. A few seconds passed, then a few more, and he settled back against the wall of flowers.

“Not particularly,” he hesitantly stretched his metal-clad fingers out to stroke one of the orchid's petals, “But I appreciate their beauty. I frequent this area for the jasmine.”

Glad that redirecting him worked, you hummed lightly, feigning enlightenment, “Ah, so, you _weren’t_ following me?”

A small chuckled sounded behind his helm.

“No,” he sighed as he looked up at the flowers in the rafters. “I quite like the serenity in the back gardens.” The dragon slayer turned back to you. “Hardly anyone ever comes back here; happening upon you was mere luck.”

The sound of wind brushing through petals and leaves howled slightly in your ears. As the week progressed, the colder it seemed to get - _especially_ during the night. It had to be twilight, you figured, as you looked at the purple streaks in the sky. Another breeze blew through, and you stifled a small shiver.

“Do you have a favorite flower?” the knight prompted.

“Yes, I do.” You shifted your legs under you, wincing marginally at the twinge in your joints from sitting on the ground for so long. “I enjoy honeysuckle.” 

The leather-bound in your lap fell forward onto the gravel as you moved, and your heart skipped a beat as the drawing of Ornstein’s armor laid face up.

Hurriedly, you went to seize the book, but a flash of gold took hold of it before your finger even grazed the page. Your hands clammed up.

Ornstein righted himself against the wall and joked: “I think I recall you saying that you're capable enough to keep a hold of this-” 

His posture went rigid. A leaf tripped over his left sabaton.

The knight traced a finger down the side of the page, his other hand laid underneath the cover to hold it open - he looked almost scholarly with the book in his hands.

Embarrassment burned under your skin. Your throat made a strange noise as you made a grab for the book. 

Completely absorbed in the pages before him, the dragon slayer jumped. You took it out of his hands and slammed the book shut. You had always hated when people took your sketchbooks without asking, and as of right now, that hadn’t changed. 

Your eyes were cast to the ground as you made the way back to your seat on the ground. A lone crow cawed in the distance.

“You drew me,” he stated bluntly after a minute. His voice sounded funny. “From memory.”

Flipping to a random page, you began to draw arbitrary shapes; you were uncomfortable, and you had nothing to say to him.

The sound of gravel crunching under him didn’t tear your gaze away from the book you clutched in your hands. You saw him bow in the corner of your vision.

Ornstein spoke, softly, “My lady.”

You picked your eyes up just in time to watch the tail end of his plume disappear around the wall of orchids.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. plot is not my thing, and i won't pretend that it is. _but_ , i needed to sprinkle it in for future characterization purposes (that will, pretty much, make no sense to anyone but me but like, this is my sandbox so it's fine)
> 
> uh, ily guys so so so much, i reread your comments often. it's gross. <3333

Moonlight faded through the windows, illuminating your way in geometric, stained-glass spotlights. Despite the impossibility, the light looked wet, drippy; shiny, and sparkly as it dipped in the grout of the floor.

It froze the skin through your slippers and gave your breath a corporeal form in a humid fog. The cold was dewy and refreshing, but keeping your head aloft through your exhaustion was nothing short of a herculean struggle. 

You had been walking for hours. Centuries, even. 

In reality, it was likely only half of that; but lifetimes seemed to drift by, leaving you stuck, wandering down this damnable corridor. That meant it had to be a dream, but you’d never seen this part of the castle before.

Your teeth were clamped together, taut, and drawn up into your skull. The pressure grew with each door you passed, and the wet light painting your way made your head heavy; tender, like a ripe summer fruit.

Then, there was a door. Of course, there was, there were many of them - all nauseatingly similar - but this one felt disparate. The tentative vibration of magic leaked from the wood like a worthless dam. 

You wondered why. 

Like most things, it was fit for a god, with the very top of its frame looming high high high above you. The doorframe lurched and twisted in your mind, bending toward you like a menacing beast. 

Fear weighed on your shoulders as an overwhelming sense of vertigo took root in your stomach. You felt like you might be sick - you very well might've been - and your hand reached to push the door back in place. 

It was slick, smooth with clear varnish under your palm.

With a disembodied whisper, the door popped open. 

The light led you further from the door, further into the room. Neglected treasures piled to the ceiling, the height making you dizzy again. Crates, dulled weapons, and paintings sat; their patient wait through the years a physical beast with their dust coating them in thick piles. 

A collection of amorphous shapes were settled apart from the rest of the room, tucked away and purposefully forgotten. 

Purposefully dismissed. 

A dewdrop of the finest melancholy coated your lashes, your cheek, before falling to the floor. You felt a lingering sadness in this room - the absurdity made your head spin - but it was not yours. 

Your hand trailed over a moth-eaten drape, and with something bittersweet poached on the back of your tongue, you yanked it away, leaving it to pool at your feet. 

A statue. 

A statue of marble and gold and dust and -

Hesitantly, your hand extended. Your hand settled on the bust’s cheek, below the spired crown. Below the wild mane of hair. The intricacies filled you with wonderment, awe. 

Confusion.

The statue was not of anyone you recognized, and your fingers traced the effigy’s empty expression in the hopes of memorizing its contours. If it was left here to decay, you determined that you should try to remember it; put a name to the nameless. 

Three other statues sat to your right, and you brushed the covering of the nearest one. It was the tallest among them, over thrice your height. 

You tugged at the base, to no avail. You pulled again. Again, again, and again. Perspiration beaded like pearls on your brow, and the light bleeding through the lone window in the room seemed to twinkle with humor. 

Spinning around, you held the corner of the covering over your shoulder and lurched forward; all of about two inches before being hauled back. Something seemed to loose under your incessant yanking, and with a wary glance behind you, a mountain of cloth came raining down. 

A shriek ripped itself out of your throat as you scrambled for the door. Your foot slipped on the illuminated floor, wet and coated in milky moonlight - unbelievably impossible. 

The sound of the curtain hitting the floor was anticlimactic, nothing more but a hushed whisper, but the drape continued to layer on top of your prone form.

Panic bubbled like boiling water in your chest. The sheet seemingly had no end as you tried to scramble your way out from under it. There was so much; pooling and pooling and pooling with no air to breathe and - 

“ _My lady_!” a young voice cried.

Wayward sunbeams pierced your eyes as a duvet was taken off your head. A disheveled and bewildered handmaiden stood next to your bed, olive comforter clutched, white-knuckled, in her small hands.

“My lady?” your handmaiden tried again, voice hushed. “Are you… are you _alright_?”

A painfully choppy breath fettered out of you, and a simper graced your lips. 

“Y-yes, I am fine.” 

Her face was still aghast, eyes wide and misty. 

“It was a…” You were scrambling. “It was just a bad dream, I think.” 

The accuracy of that might’ve not been too far off the mark, but it didn’t stop the utterance from feeling like a gross understatement. 

The young woman looked traumatized by your earlier actions, and the absurdity of being caught fighting with one’s sheets deluged you with a heavy dose of embarrassment. 

“I am sorry,” you hovered a palm over the top of her hand, “I must’ve given you quite the scare.”

A sheepish, uncertain smile pulled at her lips. You watched her lay the comforter back onto the bed and try, in vain, to smooth out the wrinkles. 

She soothed, “It is alright, my lady. I just wanted to make sure you were… well.” Confusion radiated off of her and had you an inkling of any type of explanation, you would have gladly supplied her with one.

You moved around the four-poster awkwardly, shame and disorientation moving you toward the open, breezy window. 

After a few moments, your handmaiden was back to her normal, chattering self as she went about picking your outfit for the day. You listened idly. 

The sun was rising, peachy and yellow in the sky. The birds were in their nest upon the pane, tittering, not unlike the friend behind you. 

Snippets of the dream plagued your mind, and with a frown, you felt at the base of your skull, prodding around the beginnings of your hairline. The ache in your head had felt so… real. A majority of the nightmare had been undoubtedly realistic, surreal. 

It was bizarre and normal at the same time.

Usually, dreams were nothing but sand at this point; blocked shapes and colors, feelings and phrases, but nothing tangible or discernable. But, as it seemed to be, this particular nightmare would be sticking around. 

A weary sigh loosened itself from your lungs as your eyes poured over the splendor of the gardens. You felt your thoughts wade away from the dream. Would you be able to visit the back gardens soon? 

Splashes of that night played behind your eyes, and the prospect of running into the dragon slayer again made your pulse flutter in your palms. 

That was certainly a new feeling.

“- did you think of them, my lady?” 

You tuned in at the latter end of her rambling, and she looked exasperated at your questioning expression.

“I mean _really_ , it is like you never listen to me!” She threw her hands into the air. You knew she acted only in jest, but that didn’t stop the slight bit of guilt from pricking your chest.

You frowned. “My apologies."

She pursed her lips. 

You tried again, “To what were you referring to?”

The young lady’s eyes grew to the size of the moon, and you braced yourself. You expected to be at the receiving end of her wild tittering once again, but all she did was animatedly point toward the hearth. 

_What?_

The sun beamed through the window, painting the far side of the room golden. You moved closer to the hearth and felt your palms perspire sweetly with sweat.

“They were delivered earlier this _morning_ ,” she rushed out, wringing her hands. “Along with a note by way of Lord Gwyn’s right hand." She closed her eyes, clasped her fingers together, and recited the words in a laughably horrible mimic of the knight, "'You will be continuing your assignment today with the Lord’s Blade Ciaran, dearest _painter_ '." 

She broke character with an excited squeal.

"The royal guard returned a few moons ago - bet you didn't know! Marcie told me that - so you will be returning to… well, _whatever_ it is that you do!” 

Your back was to her, and never were you more grateful, for your face had begun to burn red as she went on about how _chivalrous_ and _dashing_ the dragon slayer had looked when he caught her in the hall earlier that morn. 

It continued to burn steadily as you gathered his _delivery_ in your hands; sweet, white petals, bunched together in aromatic comradery. 

They were honeysuckle.

* * *

The late autumn heat was smoldering. By the sun’s positioning, it was a handful of hours past noon, and the temperature was at its zenith. 

Lady Ciaran was practicing against a wooden model at the far end of the courtyard - had been for hours - with the dull _thunk_ of the training weapon keeping the time.

Sif watched the woman move like a hornet with a borderline lethargic interest; her eyes drooped.

Her sire was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t stop her from shaking your leg as she panted by your side.

A final jab from the weapon sent the model careening backward, and you idly scribbled as she returned the training equipment to the back of the courtyard. 

“Are you nearly finished, painter?” the Lady queried on her way over. 

Her tone was a cool breeze on a warm day; welcome, refreshing-

Cold, even still.

“Hm,” you flipped between the spread of pages on your lap, considering, “Yes, almost. I can probably finish these later if you-”

“The Captain should be here to collect you shortly.” Ciaran gave you a curt bow. “I will be taking my leave.”

You tucked away the piece of charcoal staining your fingers. The Lord’s Blade was nearly by the main archway of the courtyard when you finally found your voice.

“Wait, Lady Ciaran,” you called out. You maneuvered from your spot next to Sif, who whined vocally at your movement. 

The Lady's shoulders squared, stiff. She hesitantly looked behind her shoulder. 

It struck you how similar in height you were. 

“Yes?” Her mask gave nothing away, and you fumbled under the weight of your assumptions.

You gestured toward one of the marble benches. “Might we talk?”

Silence filled the air between the two of you as she seemed to deliberate over her answer. Contemplative, like Gough; but that seemed to be the only thing the two had in common. 

She turned to face you fully before motioning to the bench with a lithe hand.

 _Sit._

Your hands held themselves in uncertainty and moved to brush the hairline wrinkles from your trousers as you sat. 

Ciaran was completely silent as she settled down. 

The space between you might as well have been a chasm for how distant she felt; it was like she was a whisper, or smoke - intangible, fleeting. 

She didn't seem easy to scare - quite the contrary - but you got the inclination that she spooked easily all the same.

You listened to the skittering of leaves across the wind-eaten stone beneath your feet before you popped the tense bubble of quiet. The hitch of your breath as you began to speak was deafeningly audible.

“Did I… say something to offend you, my lady?”

A snort, maybe even a derisive laugh, was what you were expecting to get from being so obtuse. But the Lord’s Blade wasn’t cruel; all she gave you was a winded sigh.

“No, you did not.” Clipped, precise. 

She answered when spoken to, but nothing more, nothing less.

The differential between you was maddening.

"If that isn't it," you clasped your hands in your lap, "why are you cross with me?”

Sif wandered over and sat next to Ciaran, head resting lightly in her lap. You watched nimble fingers card through the wolf’s coarse hair with ease, and soon enough, Sif’s tongue was lolling out over piercing, white canines. 

Her mask tilted up toward the branches of the large tree that bisected the courtyard. The tree limbs sliced the sun’s beams into triangles, hundreds and hundreds of triangles. Congruent shapes fell peacefully onto her emotionless porcelain, similar to and not at all like rain.

“Might I ask… what he is like?” She tilted her eye-slats to you. “Artorias,” she clarified. 

You might have laughed at the recurring question had you not heard how uncharacteristically brittle her voice had become. Her body language was still impossible, but her voice was vulnerable.

It was apparent you couldn't jest with her like you could with the maid. 

The mask became something of a blessing, now, as you’re not sure you would have been able to maintain eye-contact with her; raw emotions were never easily digestible.

“He’s kind,” you echoed. “Sweet to strangers, if how he interacted with me is anything go by. Why?”

The Lord’s Blade sighed again.

“We practice together, have meals together. I can hardly think of a moment when we aren’t with one another, and yet…” she trailed off, voice far, far away. She faded back into the moment. “His interests lie in being companionable to everyone, but with you, I was afraid.”

Your mind blanched.

“Afraid of what, exactly?” you pressed, openly curious.

She scratched Sif behind the ears and took the moment to formulate an answer.

“You, of course.”

You recoiled in disbelief. “What?”

“Sir Artorias has only pure intentions for everyone, myself included.” Her voice painted itself in bitter tones. “I was afraid you would, somehow, change that.”

Ciaran let go of Sif and leaned back on her hands, mask angled at the sky. 

It had been a month and a half since you first rode the carriage through Anor Londo’s gates, but, with exception of their Captain, you had only seen each of the knights once. The Lord’s guard had been busy with missions and quests and other things you hadn’t been privy to for a few weeks, and your assignment had been, effectively, put on hold. 

For the one afternoon that you had been scheduled with Artorias, he had been cordial, accommodating. Soft, like a poet, despite the absurdity.

For Ciaran to be that paranoid about your one interaction, it must mean she cared about him a great deal. 

It was… sweet, in a way.

“Lady Ciaran,” you started before she cut you off.

“You have no need to be so proper, titles are a tiresome thing."

A smile curved around your words. “Artorias said something similar when I insisted on calling him ‘ _sir_ ’.”

It was soft, but a snort ricocheted behind her mask, shaking her shoulders with the small movement.

“That sounds like him.” Ciaran's accent already twisted her words into something cool, something pleasant, but her audible smile made them even more so. 

You watched Sif move to sit under the large tree. 

“You know him well, right?" you ventured, despite knowing the answer. “Why don’t you try talking to him about this?" 

She hummed noncommittally behind the mask. 

You continued, "If you still have doubts, I can assure you, you have no reason to fear me or my motives. He is kind, but I, um, never had much of a sweet tooth myself.”

Ciaran's hand came to her stomach as she laughed, actually _laughed_. You chuckled along, more than mortified that you let that last sentence slip. 

“If what you say is true, you might have to take up the Captain," the Lord's Blade giggled.

Heat pooled behind your cheeks. "Surely, you jest!"

"Of course!" she clarified. "But, in truth, that man has both bark _and_ bite with no sweetness in between.”

Silence overtook you as you sputtered with the beginnings of a response.

“Wait,” Ciaran touched your shoulder, “do you-”

“ _No_ ,” you butted in, not caring to let her finish what she was going to say. You weren’t even completely sure where she was going with it, but you wanted the conversation to be over. 

Now, if at all possible.

A giddy thrill rumbled behind her mask upon seeing your embarrassed, blooming face.

“Might you be _smitten_ with the Captain, dear painter?” Ciaran queried, voice a hair above a whisper.

"What! _No_ , I-"

“And what are you lovely three discussing so seriously?”

A surprised yelp pulled itself from the base of your spine, and Ciaran spun around on the bench to identify the interloper.

Seeing it was only Artorias, you visibly sagged. The Lord’s Blade stood up, and Sif was already pawing at the knight’s chest, clamoring for attention. 

You found yourself standing next to Ciaran, relief sluicing over you; what you would have done had Artorias been Ornstein just then, you didn’t know.

“Done with training for today?” Ciaran prompted, voice kind in that special way. 

Artorias gave Sif one last hug before setting her paws back on the ground. 

“Yes, I finished with the Captain a moment ago-” imperceptibly, Ciaran's mask tilted toward you, “-and he told me to fetch the painter and escort her to the throne room.”

You couldn’t help the slight frown that pulled at the corners of your mouth, but you tucked the disappointment away.

Artorias bowed to the Lord’s Blade before motioning you to follow him. Sif trailed along behind.

You stopped in front of Ciaran after retrieving your book and offered a smile as you bowed in farewell. She returned the motion in kind.

Her invisible smile was audaciously audible. “Do make sure to say ' _hello_ ' to the captain for me when you see him.”

You watched her saunter toward the other exit in stupefied silence.

You felt compelled to say something, anything, to cover yourself; even if it was, in hindsight, irrevocably stupid.

"I-I don't even know when I'll be seeing him again!" you called to her retreating figure.

"Even if you weren't meeting with the _only member of the royal guard you haven't worked with_ tomorrow, he would find some way to-" The rest was cut off by her exiting through the archway.

"What?" You cupped your hand around your mouth.

Her response ricocheted: 

" _Goodbye, painter!_ "

* * *

The halls felt less empty with both the Wolf Knight and his ward alongside you. His height made it abundantly clear why such high ceilings were a necessity. 

A flash image of the massive door from your dream flickered behind your eyelids.

And you had just nearly forgotten about it. Damn.

“What an interesting page marker, my lady,” a voice pushed through your loud thoughts. 

Your eyes flitted to the helm looming above you before a flushed grin fought its way onto your face. You opened the leather-bound so it lay flat in your hands and pulled the sprig of honeysuckle from between its pages. The aromatic scent wafted now that the flower was fully exposed to the air, and you saw Sif’s nose twitch out of the corner of your eye.

Artorias chuckled to himself as if someone told a joke only he understood. 

“The Captain sends his regards,” he started up between the clang of his sabatons on the glassy floor. He shifted the Greatsword upon his shoulder, sent you a sideward glance. “He wanted to escort you himself, but he had something to attend to.”

You nodded, closed the book in your hands. 

Ornstein had _wanted_ to escort you? 

You felt your heartbeat in your palms again, pattering pattering pattering against the skin.

“That’s understandable,” you croaked out. “The guard had been gone for weeks, you all most likely have other responsibilities that need your attention.” 

You hated how ridiculously bitter that sounded, but Artorias didn’t seem to catch it.

He sucked a breath between his teeth. “Right you are.” He readjusted his grip on the Greatsword. “We hadn’t intended on staying for so long, but alas, that township is on the fringes of an internal war. Its lower class is plagued by something, ah, devastating, and had we not shown up when we did - I shudder to think what might have become of it.”

Artorias chose his words deliberately and spoke with the cautiousness of a clocksmith. 

You got the inclination that he was being purposefully vague, so you let it drop. 

The throne room doors were a stone’s throw away, and you eyed the two guards with waning disdain.

"How was working with Lady Ciaran today?" he tried for conversation again.

A knowing grin illuminated your face as you stopped at the top of the steps.

"It was nice. She is pleasant to work with." Not so much at first, but that wasn't something he needed to know.

He hummed low in the back of his throat.

"That's good to hear," he said, voice warbling slightly with uncertainty. "Ah, now, painter-"

"Yes, Artorias?"

The knight's grip on the Greatsword wavered as he stood there, fidgeting.

"Might I inquire… could you- what was-"

"Knight Artorias," one of the guards interrupted. "You and Sif may enter. Lord Gwyn is ready to speak with you, now."

You grit your teeth as the guard rudely interrupted and pretended you didn't exist. Again; your tolerance, whatever you held for the two guardsmen, was becoming dangerously thin, and you feared your skull might crack from the building pressure.

Artorias, lost in his fumbling thoughts, hadn't been paying attention.

"Artorias," you placed a hand on his left vambrace. He startled like a new-born fawn. "We can go in."

"Oh, yes." Only the bottom half of his face was visible under the blue cloth, under that metal visor, but from what you could see, he looked… sheepish. "We'll talk about this later."

It sounded more like a question, but you agreed anyway.

The throne room doors opened; you went in.

* * *

You hadn’t the foggiest where you were. 

It was late in the evening, the sun low and drippy in the sky. 

Maybe a handful of hours had passed since your assessment-briefing with Gwyn; you _would_ be meeting with the remaining member of the guard in the morrow, but the lord’s proud, gleaming housecat had not been present today, to your dismay. 

You had thought of retiring for the evening, but staying in your quarters made you fidgety, antsy-

Oddly expectant.

The castle was, evidently, larger than you had originally thought. At first, you had only snuck through a door; which led to another room; that inevitably led to another hallway. 

The timid vibration of magic loomed in the air, and the ad nauseum sensation of déjà vu returned with a vengeance.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that, that-

This was the hallway. 

The hallway full of large doors and geometric windows and wet light in grouts; _the_ hallway.

Disorientation hit you like an arrow, sending your palms to cup your head. 

There was no way. Why did you dream of this? You were no prophet; there was nothing supernatural about you. How could you have a nightmare about something you hadn’t seen yet?

Wait.

That room. 

You peeked between your fingers, their proximity smudging your vision. There, at the end of the hall stood the giant, wooden door; physically not at variance with the tens of its siblings lining the corridor like a line of loyal soldiers. 

But you knew the truth. 

But what was the possibility that the room behind _that_ door was what you thought it was? What were those odds? 

Questions bounced around in your head as you slowly made your way to the door. What did it mean? What would it mean if, if, if-

The door opened. Actually opened.

Slowly, at first, then, all at once. Something golden stood in the frame, and you felt numb as realization hit.

You spun around, more than content with acting oblivious, deaf to the world, as you jaunted back to your quarters.

Like most things, though, it seemed that wasn't meant to be.

“Painter!” a booming voice hailed from behind you.

Fear and something else squeezed your heart between their palms.

So, of course, you picked up the pace.

" _ **Painter!**_ "

Alas, you weren't the knight with a lifetime of training to back up your stride with stamina and strength, and you heard him coming up behind you-

And he was in front of you. 

How, you weren't sure, but the golden light pouring through the windows reflected off the various planes of his armor, sending globs of concentrated light anywhere and everywhere.

You wagered your eyes were as wide as the moon, the sclera dewy with the onset of fear and _something you would not name_.

He was beautiful like this, scary and cold and intimidating. 

Maybe Ciaran had been onto something.

"Sir Ornstein," you managed to greet. 

Your heart thundered in your chest and in your throat from being chased down the corridor, even if all you were trying to do was leave.

The dragon slayer didn't even seem to breathe as he stood there, all imposing. 

It had been weeks since you last had seen him in the back garden; and you hadn't realized you missed him, not even a little bit. 

This was absurd.

"My office, now," he uttered, mouth full of rocks from the gravelly way his throat twisted around the words.

"I was only-"

"My office," he leaned down, snout to nose, "now."

You flinched hard enough to cause a typhoon in the neighboring kingdom. 

Pressure started to build build build in the air and in your teeth as you clenched them into your skull.

The longer he stayed bent at the waist and at your level - with his golden teeth snarling serenly and golden eyes boring into your own and golden golden golden everything - the more you braced yourself for a blow that, in hindsight, would never come.

Wouldn't ever come.

Ornstein's plume swayed as he spun around, sabatons ne'er making a sound above a whisper. 

That type of control was terrifying.

The Captain angled his head over his shoulder, toward you. "You will follow me."

"But-" you sputtered.

"This is not up for discussion," he rasped. "If you try to run again, I will simply drag you back."

Contempt settled over you.

You chanced one last wandering look behind you at the oakwood door before slipping into Ornstein's shadow.

It was a silent walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dw you're not in _that_ much trouble. maybe. probably. who knows, ~~_definitely not me lmao_~~
> 
> plot is ✨ _happening_ ✨

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! like, seriously, _thank you_. the idea for this just kinda... appeared last week, and i swear i wrote for 6 hours straight.
> 
> i'm probably going to continue this, but i won't post anymore on here if people aren't really into it. i'll just have to wait and see. for now, though, i'm going to post what i have.
> 
> thank you again!


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